For The Better
by damoisella
Summary: Even if she hadn't known it yet, it was the moment that Phryne Fisher finally let herself fall for a man. (Set directly after the season 2 finale.)


**For The Better**

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.

_Notes:_ I thought my days of fic-writing were long over, but my love for Phryne and Jack and the final scene of season 2 have made me dust off that part of my brain and begin again. Oh dear. Also, I don't tend to write in chapters, and I'm a bit lazy to go and separate it all. My apologies if this annoys you.

Includes references to the Christmas special as seen in the promo, but by no means a prediction as to what might actually happen.

* * *

Miss Phryne Fisher was a lot of things: intelligent, impertinent, bold.

'Frustrated' and 'confused' were not often the words to describe the lady detective, and yet, as she furiously bit down her bottom lip, that was exactly how she felt.

_'The __man __who __always __does __the __right __thing, __the __noble __thing.' __'Not __always, __Miss __Fisher.'_

She lay across her bed, sheets tangled around her slim frame, staring absently at the line of sunlight showing through the crack between her heavy bedroom drapes. She had woken with his words, said in barely more than a whisper, burning through her mind. Most would consider being bound, gagged and held inside the holding of a ship enough activity to warrant a deep sleep afterwards, and yet here she was the next morning, awake far earlier than she had expected.

There was an unfamiliar tightness inside her, a tense feeling of... she didn't know. She couldn't put her finger on it, yet hated not knowing what it was.

Yearning.

No, it couldn't be, because Phryne Fisher didn't yearn for anything. Or anyone. _Especially_ not anyone.

With her natural charm and impish enjoyment out of teasing men, she didn't need to. She enjoyed testing the waters, seeing her effect on men by way of a sultry glance, a lingering trail of fingers, a cloud of French perfume. It made it hard for a man to reject her (occasionally) subtle advances. They were only human after all, she concluded matter-of-factly. And most, to her delight, were more than happy to leave their encounters to a one-time affair. Men were generally simple creatures like that.

And whilst all her gentlemen were kind, or passionate, or harboured a devilish spark, her attraction was purely physical. Phryne loved feeling wanted, desired. The feel of skin on skin, of hands gripping, of feeling their ragged breath on her collarbone. The mere idea of commitment, of being life bound by words and a ring, had always appealed to her no more than being dangled over a pool of piranhas.

Therefore, this feeling of (what she suspected was) yearning was altogether unfamiliar and, she added, most unwelcome.

_'Not __always, __Miss __Fisher.'_ His voice haunted her again.

With a heavy sigh and pushing all thought away, she forced herself out of bed and began getting dressed for the day. Surely getting on with her routine would distract her from any vicious thoughts that had trickled into her subconscious during the night.

"Good morning, Aunt P," she greeted as she swept downstairs for breakfast.

Her aunt looked weary, no doubt kept awake from an newborn. "Yes, good morning, Phryne." Prudence peered at her over the rim of her teacup. "Need I remind you that you are to accompany me to Mrs Hasting's luncheon today? It's for _charity_, Phryne," she added sternly upon seeing her niece's dismayed expression. "It was quite expensive per head, you know."

"What is the cause this time?" Phryne responded with a tiny edge of exasperation. "The orphanage? Women's education? The upkeep of tram carriages?"

Her aunt hesitated slightly, before defiantly answering, "The local church's Sunday school classroom is in great need of care -"

Phryne didn't try and hide her exasperation this time. "Surely there are better causes to be concentrating on?"

"A child's education is of the utmost importance -"

"Very well," she relented, realising that chatting to a roomful of wealthy wives, and even wealthier widows, might just be the distraction her mind needed. She twitched her mouth at Dot, just entering carrying a plate of freshly made toast, who in turn smiled back sympathetically.

With any luck, the women's chatter would overtake the low, gravelly voice of a man that would not escape her head.

* * *

Late that night, as Phryne sat on her parlour window seat, she heard soft footsteps enter the room. She tore her eyes from the dark window to see the kind eyes of Mr Butler peering at her.

"Can I fetch anything else for you, Miss?" he asked with a gentle smile.

She shook her head and swirled the whiskey in her glass. "Thank you, but no. I apologise for the lateness, Mr Butler."

"Not at all, Miss." He gave her a sympathetic nod and departed the room, leaving her the sole occupant. She tucked up her knees on the window seat and leaned her temple against the cool glass.

The luncheon had indeed helped in distracting her mind, and yet now with the silence of the night around her, her thoughts were invasive once more.

The feeling of yearning; it was because of Jack Robinson. It had to be. She was a smart woman, Phryne Fisher, and whilst she may have internally tried to deny it, she had concluded there was no other possible option nor explanation.

She hadn't know when it had started. Her usual game of looking at him from beneath her lashes, of occasionally leaning over him, of suggestive words dipped into her sentences, was a well-practised one and she always enjoyed seeing the reactions it garnered. She could peg most men into one of a few categories: those who happily took the bait, those who resisted (and then ultimately failed), and those who were rendered speechless by her unexpected forwardness.

Jack Robinson, however, fell into none of those categories, and she didn't quite know what to do about it. Oh, she had been delighted in initially causing him to look like a rug had just been pulled out from underneath him. She supposed he _had_ been thrown into an unknown situation: not only having a lady detective lingering around the station, but also one to have a presence such as hers – it would disconcert any man.

And yet he'd turned the tables on her on various occasions, playing along with her game and giving it back just as good as she gave it, leaving Phryne to be the one feeling fazed.

So she'd continued in her suggestive murmurings and blithely perching on the edge of his desk, determined to have the upper hand between them. It was almost cruel, the taunting she subjected him to, except for the fact that he seemed to enjoy it.

The only reason why she continued her game was, deep down, Phryne knew he was recently divorced and a man of tradition. Knowing he would never physically retaliate in their game only made it more enticing for her, seeing how far she could go.

And then one day, it seemed, the line blurred between an act of simple toying and actual heartfelt gestures. She couldn't pinpoint when it had happened. The moments when his eyes had lingered, or he'd nervously cleared his throat before speaking, had only caused her satisfaction that she still could indeed have a lasting effect on him. At least, that's all she thought it was.

The idea that it meant anything more had refused to enter her mind. Until now, that is, her head clouded with his words from the previous night and the exhilaration that, for a moment, they were something more than working partners. A step outside their game, the teasing charade seeming distant as she'd told him he always did the right thing, the noble thing, and he'd looked at her searchingly.

Because here she sat, staring out of the dark window and drinking whiskey alone, thinking about a man and this inexplicable sense of longing that she berated herself for feeling.

* * *

During the middle of the next morning, she was called into the parlour to greet a visitor, a well-dressed lady of about thirty.

"Miss Phryne Fisher," she said with a smile and an outstretched hand.

"Mrs Josephine Atkins," the woman replied, returning the smile, albeit a worried one.

Phryne gestured to one of her chairs. "Please have a seat. What can I help you with?"

Josephine sat, her fingers toyed with the string of pearls around her throat. "I heard about your detective services from a friend. I suspect my husband is not... behaving in good faith. In our marriage."

The lady detective gave a sympathetic smile. "And you would like to see what he may be up to?"

"Please. I just... I would like to know."

Phryne gave a gentle smile. "I understand. However, in the most unfortunate circumstance that he is behaving as you suspect he is, do you know what you would like to do?"

Josephine shook her head mournfully. "No. I hadn't let myself think of anything until yesterday, when he left home very late after supper. He wasn't telling me where he was going, only that he had some business to do. But I think I am just fooling myself after months of this behaviour. Have you ever tried to convince your mind that you're thinking too much, Miss Fisher?" she asked.

Phryne swallowed, her thoughts of last night prominent in her head, but adopted a calming expression. "I don't believe there's such thing as thinking too much, Miss Atkins. I do believe, however, that intuition must be listened to."

"I feel ridiculous, Miss Fisher," the woman murmured, looking down.

"Nonsense. I will do my best to try and find out what your husband is up to, however," she added, "I must warn you that it may not be pleasant to learn. I hope you are prepared for that."

"Thank you," Josephine replied, nodding. "But the truth must be better than not knowing. You know what men are like: you think you know what they're feeling, and yet their actions contradict. And then you're just left confused and wondering how it happened."

Phryne paused, her chest heavy. "Yes, sometimes that can happen. But don't worry, Mrs Atkins," she continued, her tone forcefully bright, "we'll get to the bottom of this."

After another forty minutes of gathering information from Mrs Atkins over tea, the woman left Phryne with a hopeful, yet scared, smile.

Draining the last of her cup, Phryne decided that having a case to investigate (even if it wasn't nearly as exciting as stolen jewels, or a body found in the Yarra River) was most welcome to her. Following a man and tracking his movements wasn't difficult, only time consuming, and that sounded practically glorious to her in this point in time.

Several hours later, she was sitting on a bench across the road from the office of Reynolds & Son's Solicitors, where Mr Atkins worked. She wondered if it was pure coincidence that it also happened to be barely more than a hundred and fifty yards from the City South Police Station. Phryne Fisher didn't tend to believe in coincidences, although it seemed this time it was just so.

Since Jack had left her house the previous night, it seemed she was on a journey of realisation – even if it was one taken reluctantly. One that started off with a feeling of longing, then denial of such longing, then reaching a hesitant conclusion that their delicious tango of a game had been etched deep within her more than she wished.

Surely he wouldn't be agonising over such things, she mused. He would be tied up at the station, searching through paper trails, interviewing suspects, keeping Collins on his toes. Such investigative activities seemed rather exciting in comparison to her sitting on a bench, waiting for her suspect to leave on his lunch break. But she couldn't complain, detective work was detective work, no matter how mundane.

She supposed she couldn't find an excuse of some sort to drop by the police station, she pondered absently, before suddenly stopping herself short.

'Phryne Fisher,' she thought to herself severely, 'what on earth has gotten into you?'

(After all, she was the one who had told him, 'until our next murder investigation', which, it seemed, had come back to bite her on the rear.)

She massaged her temples as though it would cause her mind to start behaving itself. She wasn't going to start pining, or making excuses. Other women did that, not her. Although, to be fair, she hadn't really been in this position before. If she wanted a man, she wouldn't hesitate to pursue him. And even then, it was usually only because she found him rather attractive or mysterious. Whether he was a good man or a dangerous man was not so much of a deciding factor.

But something inside would never let her 'pursue' Jack. He meant too much to her. The irony taunted her.

But, she thought determinedly, the fact that the detective inspector had crept under her skin meant that she did not have to turn into a pining school girl.

Phryne continued to subconsciously watched the police station from her bench, wondering if the man of her thoughts was going to emerge. She was relieved when, fifteen minutes later, a gentleman of Mr Atkins' description left the solicitor's office and started off down the road. Smoothing the back of her hair beneath her hat, she stood and started off down the street with a purposeful stride.

* * *

The next evening, with dinner gone and Aunt Prudence finally taking Mary and the newborn back to her own home, Phryne peered into her dressing room and studied her clothing. She was determined to avoid having an evening such as the previous one, where after trailing Mr Atkins for the afternoon (and consequently concluding that, indeed, he was spending a lot of time with what looked to be a girl of barely twenty – she wasn't looking forward to having to tell that to Josephine Atkins), she'd retired for the night and had curled up with a book in the parlour. A feeling of restlessness had crept in, and not being able to bear it any more, she had taken herself to bed uncharacteristically early.

Not tonight.

"I think we shall go with this," she said aloud, reaching for a glorious peacock blue dress, embellished by silver beading and black lace trimming.

"You look marvellous, Miss," Dot commented admiringly when she finished dressing and swept downstairs, her companion's face warm.

Phryne smiled in pleasure. "Thank you, Dot. Please tell Mr Butler I will be home rather late. At least, that's the plan," she added with a grin.

With Burt and Cec on another job for the night, she caught an unfamiliar cab to a favourite old haunt of hers in East Melbourne. Her fond memory of the rather attractive men that frequented there had propelled the decision of going out tonight. There was nothing quite like surrounding oneself with attractive men to take one's mind off things, she decided.

Once inside and a gin cocktail in hand, the jazz band playing by the stage, she leant back on a column and surveyed the room with anticipation. She needed distraction, getting lost in her surroundings.

Her heart thudded for a moment when, upon her scanning of the room, she thought she saw the back of Jack Robinson. Nonsense, she chided herself. This place wasn't one of his (especially since she felt the legalities of the venue might have been questionable). Yes, that man in the distant corner was of a similar height, with a similar haircut, but he wasn't who she had momentarily thought. She willed her chest to return to normal.

Her eyes landed on a tall, distinguished looking gentleman (well, he may have been slightly younger than her) sitting by a nearby table. His hair wavy and dark, and his skin tanned, he had a foreign arrogance that appealed to her. He caught her eye and smiled the smile of a man who wasted no time.

'That'll do,' she thought with satisfaction as she watched him stand up and walk over to her, a glass tumbler in his hand.

"Good evening," he said, an evident accent appearing, his chocolate-hued eyes fixed intently on hers.

She smiled back demurely. "The way you said those two words tells me you are not from these corners."

He chuckled. "I come here from Roma, but I have been in Melbourne for three months now."

"Three months?" She quirked her eyebrow with intrigue and leaned in slightly. "I do hope someone has shown you all the sights."

His eyes didn't leave hers as he drained the remnants of his glass in one gulp. "I would be happy to be shown again." She approved of this. "I am Roberto," he added, as she delicately held out her hand to him.

"Phryne," she purred back, still with a smile. "A pleasure."

Roberto's eyes twinkled. "I am told that in this country, a man must ask a lady to dance first."

"You can ask me to do anything, Roberto," she replied coquettishly, sipping her cocktail. "But a dance is a good way to start."

Without another word, he watched her finish her drink and then led her amongst the throng of people dancing. He wasted no time in taking her hand in his, the other placed in the small of her back. She looked up at him, granting her approval, and in response the pads of his fingers pulled her closer to him. This is what she had been craving: strong arms circling her frame, the lingering gaze of a man captivated by her. A man that she didn't know, a man that might have secrets, a man who she may never see again. It seemed positively luxurious.

His dancing was more sensual than she was used to, but she appreciated this even more.

As though sensing a heated intimacy, the band changed their tune to something slower, the melody heavy with a sultry trumpet. Phryne felt Roberto's hands hold her around her hips and his breath on her neck.

"You are bellisima, Miss Phryne," he said in such a low voice that she barely heard his words over the music.

"Grazie mille," she replied, looking up at him with a smile.

Unlike the dance, he didn't ask permission to dip his head and kiss her. She welcomed it, a desire to feel him – anyone - running through her veins. His lips were soft, tasting faintly of lime -

- and for the first time in her life, Phryne felt nothing.

She kissed him back, waiting for the moment where her body would take over, where she would stop remembering the people around them. It didn't come.

Sensing her lack of enthusiasm, Roberto pulled away, suddenly looking concerned. "I am sorry, Phryne, I did not mean to scare you."

She shook her head, dumbfounded. "I'm not scared, Roberto." She held his suit jacket lapels for a moment, trying to make sense of herself. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's got into me." She chewed her lip, absolutely dismayed. Honestly, what was wrong with her?

The Italian gave her a gentle smile, and she looked up at him once more.

"You're being very kind to me, Roberto," she continued. "Far too kind. And then to top it all off, you happen to be extremely handsome."

"My mother taught me to always be kind," he told her, a rather daft-sounding sentence ordinarily, yet coupled with his accent, it sounded charming. What was she doing, she mused, rejecting this fine specimen?

"Well, thank your mother for me," she said, and removed herself from his grasp. If her body wasn't going to respond, then she didn't see any point in wasting her time. "It's been a pleasure. Enjoy the remainder of your evening." She flashed him an apologetic sort of smile, and began to walk away.

Weaving through the crowd towards the exit, she dared not turn back to look at him. Oh, she could have had a wonderful night with that man, if not for the betrayal of her body and the incomprehensible sense that her kissing him back was wrong. Phryne had never thought such a thing to be wrong, although apparently her subconscious believed differently.

Her house was dark and still upon her return. Quietly pouring herself a drink so as not to disturb anyone, she sat on the loveseat of her parlour and frowned at the other clean, empty glass that sat next to her whiskey decanter, the unused in her set of two.

Only one glass had been used in several days, and that in itself felt amiss. Perhaps she should invite Mac around the next night; due to their busy schedules she hadn't seen her oldest friend in weeks now. Yes, some company would be nice. She couldn't continue drinking alone every night.

She closed her eyes for a moment, the whiskey warming the back of her throat. The liquid seemed to be encouraging her thought process along, as though waiting for her to come to a conclusion.

Because, if truth must be told (and she would never be saying this aloud), she didn't crave any old visitor to keep her company.

She missed Jack.

It wasn't the first time she had missed him; when he had removed himself from her life after Gertie's car accident-come-murder she'd felt a sense of loss. However with one of his murder investigations that she'd then forced herself into, and them resuming their normal working rhythm after he'd accepted that they investigated better together than apart, the absence hadn't been long.

She supposed that at least he wasn't upset with her this time and hadn't forcibly removed himself. In fact, the absence this time only seemed to be due to a lack of murders, which one could say wasn't a bad thing for the city.

But there had always been murders for them to bond over, with many a late-night drink shared to swap theories and debate about suspects. Without an investigation, Phryne didn't quite know where that left them. But she did acknowledge that it now seemed that she relied upon his presence. When had that started? And what did that make her? 'Relying' was a word Phryne hadn't used in reference to herself since childhood.

She wasn't sure what ruled applied without a murder investigation to hide beneath. Could they simply socialise? She was fooling herself if she didn't think his frequent visitations were solely for investigative purposes.

She had never really known why he so frequently chose to come to her house, apart from her luxurious furniture and high quality single-malt. (She didn't want to presume, but guessed his own place of residence had neither.) Celebrating the conclusion of an investigation was merely an excuse. Surely he had other friends, family? Yet it had become routine, and one she relished.

Jack had never come by so late as the other night, however. And once more, she didn't know why he had. It had been too late for a drink, he hadn't come to return any borrowed belongings of hers... in fact, he had been comforting his ex-wife all night. He hadn't needed to explain himself to her. He didn't owe her that. Choosing to spend time with Rosie was, in fact, his own business.

But it seemed like he'd decided that explaining himself to her was the right thing to do, despite the hour.

For once, she had been serious. The gravity of the situation, of Jack almost losing his job and discovering a man he'd once aspired to be was not who he thought, meant that when she told him that he always did the right thing, the noble thing, she had said it with sincerity. She felt, with all he had fought for and lost that night, he had needed some reassurance that she believed in him.

He'd been looking at her intently, drinking in her words, _needing_ to believe them. He'd hardly blinked, with neither wanting to break the spell.

That moment had changed her; even if she hadn't known it yet, it was the moment that Phryne Fisher finally let herself fall for a man. For the first time, it wasn't about mysterious intrigue, a distant fondness, or being swept up in some physical desire. It was about a point of true understanding, of vulnerability, of trust. And it taken her days to come to that realisation.

But with this realisation came an uneasy dismay, a fear that the very essence of herself was changing. As she sat there in her darkened parlour with a tumbler in her hand, that was something she couldn't shake.

* * *

The following night, Phryne was positively delighted to have Mac join her for some evening company. Whilst she dearly loved Dot and Mr Butler keeping her household from being completely barren, there were still some underlying currents of 'employer' and 'employee' which meant, even if she wanted it, they were never going to simply sit with her for company.

"So what brings me here, Phryne?" Mac asked, accepting a cocktail from Mr Butler's tray.

Phryne gave a face of mock dismay. "Do I need a reason to invite my oldest friend for a drink? I haven't seen you in weeks!"

Mac narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "That may be true, but I still have the feeling you need me for something. What's your latest investigative case?"

"Unfortunately, nothing of the sort," Phryne sighed, taking a long drink from her glass. "In the past two days, I've uncovered a philandering husband, and today another society wife has asked me to look into her household staff and her missing ruby necklace. What I wouldn't do for a juicy murder trail to follow," she added wistfully, and then stopped at Mac's sharp look. "You know what I mean."

"And Inspector Robinson hasn't come knocking, needing your assistance? I thought he was now incapable of solving a mystery without the most shrewd woman I know."

"Nonsense," Phryne scoffed, forcing her face to reveal nothing. "He is more than capable. No, I think Melbourne's most murderous are taking a hiatus."

Mac half-smiled out of the corner of her mouth. "Ah. You're bored. That's why I'm here."

"Honestly, Mac, why do I need to justify your invitation to you? I won't invite you again," she warned over the rim of her glass.

"I somehow doubt that," the doctor replied dryly.

Phryne made a noise of sudden inspiration. "Do you know what we haven't done in years?" She stood up and rummaged through one of her chest drawers, before holding up a deck of playing cards with a sly smile.

"Ah, yes. Our infamous best-of-three gin rummy," Mac said knowingly. "I seem to remember a match-winning streak by yours truly."

"Don't be daft! I recall no such thing," Phryne grinned, sitting back down and shuffling the cards. Yes, her oldest friend, a drink, and a game – this is exactly what she needed.

An hour later, the lady detective put her hand of cards down on the table. "Gin," she declared triumphantly. "That would be best of three."

Mac sighed and surrendered her hand. "Alright, I'll give you this one – just this time," she added. "Looks like some things have changed after all these years."

Phryne finished her drink with one last sip as her friend spoke, and turned unexpectedly serious for someone who had just been so pleased at her card win. "Mac," she began, not really knowing where she was heading, "there's nothing wrong with change in a person, is there?"

Her old friend seemed to sense she wasn't referring to game skills, and could hardly remember Phryne being so suddenly solemn over a drink. Mac was wise enough not to make an issue out of it, however.

"Unless it's a change for evil, then no, I wouldn't think a change in a person is a bad thing at all," she answered truthfully. "We humans are constantly being shaped by the environment around us. It's natural."

Phryne seemed to ponder this (once again, Mac noted, rather unusual for someone who was so surefooted in life). "So if somebody had a certain life philosophy for years, decades even, and then changed – that doesn't make them flighty, does it? I would start to wonder about their reasons, personally," she murmured, almost to herself. "To let go of something they had maintained for so long."

Mac puckered her mouth to the side in disagreement. "Not always. Look at you, for instance."

"Me?" Phryne's head snapped up to look at her friend, almost alarmed. Mac couldn't know what she was talking about, surely?

"Yes, you. You have never had an inkling of a maternal bone in your body for as long as I have known you," Mac told her firmly. "And yet here you are, a foster parent of a wayward child."

"Jane is much better now that she's in a stable, caring environment," Phryne pointed out, relieved that her friend was referring to her foster daughter. "And _very_ bright. Also, I still find the thought of infants rather nauseating."

Mac smiled wryly. "You don't have to justify yourself, Phryne. My point being, even _you_ have changed your tune on something! And it has been for the better."

Phryne slowly nodded. "Thank you, Mac. This is about an old friend of Aunt Prudence," she added as an explanation, but still had a veil of pensiveness on her face that suggested it was probably a little closer to home than that.

Mac had a strong suspicion that it had nothing to do with such a person at all, but said nothing more.

* * *

"Dot, Mr Butler," Phryne called out, striding into the kitchen the following day. "I've had a marvellous idea and I need your help."

Dot looked up from the shortbread dough she was rolling and crinkled her brow. "What is it, Miss?" she asked as Mr Butler joined them in the room also looking rather curious.

"We're to throw a party for Jane returning from the continent," Phryne said triumphantly. "Just a small one, but a celebration is definitely in order. And also because the weather has been rather chilly of late, I thought, how about a Christmas-themed party?"

"A Christmas in July!" Mr Butler said with a smile. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, Miss."

"So we can celebrate like they do in the motherland," Dot added wistfully with a romantic expression appearing on her face.

Phryne was pleased; she had a feeling her two staff would love the idea.

"Excellent. We'll need to get some festive decorations of some sort, which might be a challenge due to the season, but I'm sure we'll make do," she said jubilantly. "Mr Butler, I trust you will know what to put on the menu?"

"Indeed, Miss, leave it to me."

Three whirlwind days later, Phryne looked around her parlour with delight. Dot and Mr Butler had outdone themselves with the edibles (she suspected they were just as excited as she was) and she had only been too glad to busy herself with decorating. Which, she privately thought to herself, looked rather glorious. It had been surprising fun stringing up smalls lights, with garnishes with holly wreaths, metallic stars, and candles. If something disastrous happened with being a lady detective, she mused, perhaps she had another career calling.

She was surrounded by her favourite people: apart from Jane and Mac, she had also requested that Bert and Cec come along. Aunt Prudence's invitation was something of an obligation, but also knowing her aunt's annual insistence that Christmas in the middle of summer was "wholly unnatural", she felt she might appreciate the festivities.

And with her warm invitation towards Hugh, also came the detective inspector she had given both much thought over, and at the same time busying herself away from.

She was tempted to be somewhat miffed by Jack not paying her a visit at all for over a week. Was he really so consumed with his police work that he hadn't found time? Or perhaps he had been visiting Rosie, of which he was perfectly entitled to do. (If this was the case, rather than bothering Phryne, it simply reiterated to her how much of a gentleman he was.) Or he really was taking her words, 'until our next murder investigation', rather literally which, she thought, was something of a disappointment.

Jack was a careful man; one whose every move was made deliberately and with thought. Where she would naturally throw herself into a situation with vigour, he would internally debate. It had to be expected that he wouldn't just show on her doorstep without proper reasoning.

Phryne was an observant woman, however, and although she may have had to fight an internal battle to realise the depth of her feelings for the detective (a conclusion she was still coming to terms with; it was a rather unfamiliar feeling), she never missed the movements of those around her. Over time, she'd noticed his penetrating looks at her, a flirtatious smile, a certain softness in his eyes. The transformation from exasperation at her investigative meddling, to respect and a desire for her opinion. Or the lingering over a post-investigation celebratory drink, the conversation flitting down to a more intimate, personal level that had little to do with murders.

She could understand his hesitance at seeing her, especially after being so tantalisingly close the last time they had met. That late night seemed so long ago now. Without knowing those feelings she now housed, he most likely assumed she was just flirting with him mercilessly as she did most men. He was, deep down, a traditionalist. Playing a bantering game with no real intent was one thing, but embarking on anything more truthful seemed to be something he shied away from.

Perhaps it was up to her, she thought. She needed to communicate, some place, somehow, that he was not simply another notch in her colourful history with the opposite gender.

And for one of the few times in her life, Phryne didn't quite know how.

* * *

She had needn't worry, as she was so occupied with hearing Jane telling everyone her adventurous tales of her travels, and keeping Aunt Prudence happy, that she hadn't even managed to have a conversation with Mac, let alone anybody else.

But she couldn't avoid him any longer. Finally, after some sensational platters of festive food served by Mr Butler and a glass of steaming mulled wine, she finally sauntered across the room towards him, her gold dress shimmering in the candle flames.

"I'm glad you could join us, Jack," she told him, handing him a flute of champagne. He accepted it, his observant eyes smiling softly at her in a way that made her feel like the only person in the room.

"Do I wish you a merry Christmas, despite this time of year?" he quipped, holding up his flute.

She gave a half-shrug. "Perhaps just a celebration of Jane's return would do," she replied, clinking her glass against his nevertheless.

"I'm glad she arrived back home safely."

"So am I." With the mulled wine giving her a new confidence, she dared to reach up and straighten his maroon tie ever so slightly. It was something the old Phryne (the one that didn't fall for men) would do, she reasoned. "It seems we are colour coordinated."

He glanced up at the deep red flower perched on the side of her dark hair. "Well, as long as you don't use this one as knotting practice, I think it's fine."

It was a surprisingly direct reference to her redoing his tie in his office, his knees pressed up against her legs, her face so close to his as though trying to memorise every line and curve. She remembered him looking up at her just as she'd finished the knot, their eyes locking for a split second before George Sanderson had walked in.

It was probably going to be as close as they would get to a conversation that as wasn't littered with suggestive raillery, she thought to herself. She could blame herself for that habitual conversational tone of theirs; it was her automatic mode for when talking to men.

"I assure you I will do no such thing," she said, her eyes twinkling. "Unless, for whatever reason, you find it needs attention."

His amusement danced across his face as he simply looked back at her, as though waiting for her to continue.

With her attention completely drawn to the inspector, she suddenly felt movement behind her, and Jane leapt up to stand on one of her ottomans.

"Miss Fisher and the Inspector!" she declared impertinently, holding up a handful of mistletoe over her foster mother's head.

It only took Phryne a second to quickly cotton onto the game Jane had been playing whilst she had been engaging with Jack. Slightly panicked, she glanced back at the inspector, unsure as to what to do.

In times gone by, Phryne knew she wouldn't have hesitated to play along (goodness knows how many times she had surreptitiously placed herself under mistletoe next to unsuspecting men) and yet this time, something inside her seized up in uncertainty. She wasn't prepared for this, for anything she might have felt for the inspector be out on public display.

He returned her gaze, his face betraying nothing, certainly not aiding in her thought process. Just what was he thinking? She felt the rest of the party in the room watching, not helped by Cec and Bert's cheeky noises of expectation. (She would give them a withering look later.)

The few agonising seconds of silence, that to Phryne seemed to stretch out to hours, was interrupted by Aunt Prudence suddenly flapping her arms towards the girl. "Alright, Jane, that's enough of your silly game. When is the pudding being served?" she added in the direction of Mr Butler, who was already holding a tray of dessert dishes to distribute.

The party guests immediately turned eagerly towards the pudding, as though they hadn't eaten in weeks, Jane's game suddenly forgotten.

Phryne let out a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding. She felt conflicted; a part of her was disappointed, terrified that their moment had passed, not having had the courage to move. The other part of her was relieved by her aunt's timing. Being thrust into that situation, so excruciatingly close to Jack, had knocked more wind out of her than she had ever expected.

And still he said nothing, his face infuriatingly unreadable as he locked his eyes to hers.

At a loss of what to do, she drained her champagne in a one gulp. "I'd better go and check up on Dot in the kitchen," she said, her words sounding pathetically empty even to her own ears. Surely he would see through her.

Though he simply nodded, and before he had a chance to say anything further, she swept away, her gold dress swishing behind her.

* * *

The end of the night had been reached, primarily by Jane's evident yawning, and the invited guests stood gathered at the elegant front door.

Phryne managed to kiss Aunt Prudence a farewell before the older lady made off in rather a hurry, no doubt reaching her tolerance threshold of sharing company with such non-societal people. (Aunt Prudence never did understand why her niece seemed to find acquaintances that sometimes had only two pennies to rub together.) Bert and Cec followed suit, their smiles infectious as Phryne wished them a safe drive home. Dot murmured something about seeing Hugh out, and the young pair too stepped outside into the dark night.

"You did a wonderful job tonight," Mac told her friend, shrugging on a heavy tweed coat. "What a fantastic idea for something festive in the middle of a dreary winter."

Phryne smiled modestly. "I had to find an excuse for a party, didn't I?"

Mac chuckled in response, and then glanced behind Phryne, seeing only one remaining guest standing there. "Good night, Inspector," she said, giving Phryne the tiniest of looks before heading out the door.

Phryne watched her old friend depart, wondering how much she knew. Mac always did have good intuition, it was what made her such a commendable doctor.

She turned back around to face Jack, who had made no movement towards his coat or hat and, once again, was particularly quiet. His lack of words, giving none of his thoughts away, was making her all the more exasperated, coupled with the frustration of not knowing how to behave.

"Thank you for coming," she said, needing to fill the silence.

He nodded. "Of course."

A moment of courage made her press onwards. "Would you like one last drink before you go?"

He considered this for a second, before nodding again. "I'd be glad to."

She swept past him, leading them back into the parlour. Pouring them each a splash of her single-malt from the crystal decanter, she turned to find him standing unexpectedly close behind her. Even he seemed a little surprised about where his feet had taken him.

Wordlessly, she handed him a glass and raised her own. He obligingly clinked, his eyes locked on hers.

This silence was slowly killing her, she realised, taking one sip, then another, leaving only a scant amount of golden liquid at the bottom of her glass. Did her mantle clock always tick so loudly? She'd never been so aware of it before.

She went to put her glass back down on the mahogany liquor serving cart, his arm mimicking hers at the same time. Their respective glasses clunked on the wooden surface in unison, the slightest brush of his bent knuckles against the side of her hand. It was enough to make her inhale sharply, though barely noticeable to the external eye.

She glanced up at him, and for the first time, saw an expression of something other than the calm control that had been tormenting her this whole evening. His eyes were intense, darker than usual, his breath slightly shallow. It seemed she wasn't the only one affected, she vaguely observed. He didn't break eye contact as she felt his fingers again, feather light touches along the back of her hand, slowly skimming upwards towards her wrist bone. She didn't dare move, her breath caught somewhere in her chest, but he seemed to take her lack of movement as permission to continue.

His fingers, still barely touching, carried on up her bare arm; cautiously, as though he was testing her. When he made contact with her exposed collarbone, she let out her breath raggedly. She hadn't felt this vulnerable in years, since during wartime. And yet peculiarly, she had never felt safer. She realised that whether it be here in her parlour or chasing some criminal through the alleyways, her trust in him ran deeper than she had ever acknowledged.

His long fingers ran up over the golden fabric of her dress's drape at her neck, the tips stopping to rest just behind her ear as he gently, yet uncertainly, cupped her face with his palm.

Jack's eyes dropped to her mouth, looking as though he hardly dared believe he had gotten this far, a flicker of hesitance.

Her heart throbbing with how much tenderness was etched on his face, she gave the tiniest of nods, and finally, _finally, _she felt his lips gently press against hers.

He kissed her slowly as she felt her body melt, the raw care and honesty he was showing towards her nothing like she ever remembered experiencing. Not from when he had kissed her as a distraction from Rene Dubois, oh so long ago, and not from any other man she had met.

He pulled back, holding her gaze, his fingers still on her neck. Slowly, he lowered his hand, her skin tingling with an invisible imprint of where his hand was no longer.

"I have been wanting to do that ever since the last time I left here," he murmured, his voice cracking hoarsely. She gave a tiny smile, mostly of relief. So he hadn't forgotten about her during this past week.

Seeing the warmth in her face, he smiled back, but then sobered quickly. She tensed, wondering what he was going to say.

"Phryne -" she couldn't remember her name, so rarely used by others, sounding any more sweeter, "I know who you are, your view on life. I know." His eyes searched her face, but she waited for him to continue. "And I can't let myself be another forgettable dalliance."

She widened her eyes in alarm. "Jack, no -"

"I'm also a divorced man," he continued softly, seemingly determined to say his peace, "and unlikely to marry again for a long, long time – if ever. I can't risk being twice-divorced... that would be unbearable."

Her insides ached, for his divorce had made him more cynical about love than she'd realised.

She didn't know what she wanted. Despite her new-found recognition that he was the man who could make her stomach jump, her heart flutter, her breathing pattern forgotten, she wasn't convinced she was ever going to be the marrying kind. But it heartened her to learn that he didn't seem to know, either. If he would allow her, they could work it out together. And the prospect of that made her positively enthralled.

"You," she began, her fingers lightly grazing over the lapels of his suit jacket, "would never be a forgettable dalliance."

He gave her a crooked smile. "I'm not wanting to change you, Miss Fisher."

She almost laughed. "You may not yet realise it, Jack Robinson," she told him, her expression earnest, leaning her body forwards against his, "but you already have."

_fin_

* * *

_Notes II: _This was written in a moment (well, several moments) of inspiration. However with my work schedule getting nutty before Christmas, this may be my first and only foray in Miss Fisher's world - unless something, really, really tickles my fancy. Nevertheless, thank you for reading, and bring on the 22nd December!


End file.
